So is Sven good in bed, Ulrika?

By PIERS MORGAN

Last updated at 18:48 26 March 2007

Piers Morgan's diaries about life as a Fleet Street editor, exposing the secrets of the rich and famous, caused a sensation. Now he's back - and trying to carve out a new career as a celebrity in his own right. The result is a book every bit as hilariously indiscreet as its predecessor. This is our second extract ...

August 26, 2005

Kevin Pietersen, the England cricket star, sorted out tickets for me and a mate to the fourth Test match at Trent Bridge today. We were right in the middle of the players' wives and families enclosure, and we exchanged jovial banter throughout the day with Michael Vaughan's dad and Freddie Flintoff's wife.

By the time England came out after tea to bowl again, I was fairly merry, to put it mildly. "Oh, not that bloody pie-thrower," I observed loudly as Matthew Hoggard came on to bowl.

"Ssh," came a tetchy voice from behind that I ignored. I carried on mumbling and moaning for half an hour, convinced that Hoggard was going to single-handedly lose us the Test match and therefore any chance of winning the Ashes. "Get ... him ... OFF!" I shrieked, to further widespread shushing. Then he took three wickets in quick succession, bowling beautifully. The crowd went wild, chanting: "Hoggie, Hoggie, Hoggie!" I went puce with embarrassment.

Rachel Flintoff lent over. "Piers, I think you owe that lady an apology." She pointed to the seat directly behind me. I turned very slowly to find an attractive young blonde sitting with a grimly-set expression on her face.

"Mrs Hoggard," she said, savouring the moment. "Yes, I am. And I've been listening to your cr*p for the last hour."

"Ah yes, well, the thing is, let me explain ..."

Mrs Hoggard raised her arm to silence me. "There's no need to say a word, is there? My husband's made you look a right t*t."

September 25

The producers of the political chat show I do with Amanda Platell want us to go to the Labour Party conference to show off a bit and sign up some Labour big beasts as guests.

I vowed last year never to attend the party conferences again so I trudged down to Brighton with a heavy heart. At the New Statesman party, I spotted David O'Keefe, our producer, in conversation with Charles Clarke, Home Secretary and one of the planet's most pompous men.

It was obvious from their respective demeanours that David was pleading with Clarke to come on the show and getting nowhere.

"Ah, Home Secretary, how are you?" I said. "Ah, Morgan," he replied, 'I was just telling your producer why I won't be doing your sh***y little TV show." He appeared to have been drinking, as is normal with Mr Clarke, and his face was putrid and angry.

I considered how to respond for a moment or two. I'd been given strict instructions to behave myself, but Clarke was being deliberately provocative and I wasn't just going to stand there and take it.

"Tell you what, mate," I said, "why don't you just stick it up your big fat a**e?"

Clarke looked at me, a bit stunned. I don't care any more. I'm bored with these ridiculous politicians and their equally ridiculous hangers-on. Almost all of them are conspiratorial, intellectually lightweight, humourless back-stabbers who would sell their children to get a job in the Cabinet.

I left my producer trying to appease Clarke, who was playing the wounded and distressed card for all he could, and went home.

October 13

Michael Vaughan had his big benefit dinner tonight at the Hilton in Park Lane, and I was the host. It was a massive do, with well over 1,200 people, all paying a small fortune to honour the England cricket captain.

My main task was to interview Michael, and then get six more of the Ashes heroes up on stage for a further grilling. Most of these Q&As tend to be rather boring, with the same old questions coming up time after time, so I decided to be a little different.

"Michael, it's been a great summer, but there's one question everyone in this room really wants to know ..."

He craned his neck forward. The audience waited silently. I let the tension build for a second or two.

"... and that's this: Who pi**ed in Tony Blair's garden?"

Vaughan burst out laughing, as did the audience. "Well, let's just say it was a big man who's not here."

"Called Fred?" "He's not here, whoever he is." I was off and running, and by the time the other England boys got on stage my irreverence knew no bounds.

"So, Marcus Trescothick, why do the lads really call you 'Banger'? It's got nothing to do with sausages, or has it?"

"Simon Jones, the last time I saw you was in a Barbados bar and you were heading off hand in hand with Jodie Kidd. What happened next?"

And so on. It all went down very well. I think I'm getting the hang of this public speaking lark.

I ended up in Annabel's with the cricketers, where they were showered with free champagne and mobbed by sexy posh blonde girls, as if they were pop stars. It's been interesting watching the celebrification of cricket since we won the Ashes.

October 17

To the Savoy hotel today for a charity event called Turn The Tables, where politicians get to grill their media tormentors in front of a big audience.

I was to be David Blunkett's victim, which was perfect timing given that he has spent most of the last year immersed in a furious battle with the media over his affair with Kimberly Quinn.

He seemed considerably thinner than the last time I'd seen him, and nowhere near as confident or bombastic. The audience were virtually baying for blood by the time we got up on stage, but Blunkett was strangely disengaged.

"No tricksy stuff or I'll go nuclear," I joked.

"Don't worry, I don't want any more trouble," he replied meekly.

His first few questions were more Parky than Paxman, and it only livened up when he made some dig about the press intruding on politicians' private lives. I replied: "Well, we don't need to dig very far. You politicians seem quite capable of being caught with your trousers down without any help from the Press."

Everyone laughed, except Blunkett, who just looked nervous and keen to move the conversation on.

He asked another very boring question, and I could feel palpable disappointment from the crowd, so I ignored it and said: "I asked a few of my mates in the local pub for the best Blunkett joke they'd heard and they came up with an absolute corker. But I'll only reveal it if someone bids at least £1,000 for charity by the end of lunch."

Our "confrontation" had been a damp squib and lunch was even drearier. In the good old days, before the pair of us became mired in scandal and sacking, we'd have swapped insults throughout the meal and had a great time.

But Blunkett just sat there, not eating or saying much, and looking thoroughly miserable. He seems broken to me, a pitiful shadow of the man he used to be.

And that's a crying shame, because he was always one of the more impressive politicians. Charismatic, clever, cunning and ambitious. A man who loved the rough and tumble of politics. Now he seems half dead and desperate for a quiet life.

Perhaps most tellingly, nobody was allowed to bid for my joke because the organisers decided it wouldn't be wise to embarrass Blunkett any further.

October 24

I did a speech in Wales to the prestigious Cardiff Business Club, and during the Q&A afterwards I was asked what I thought of Ian Blair, the Met Police chief, with regard to the enveloping scandal over the innocent Brazilian shot dead at Stockwell Tube by cops who thought he was a suicide bomber.

"I think the guy at the top should always take the rap for these things," I said, "and if it's proven that he tried to cover up anything, then he should go immediately."

Warming to my theme, I added: "Ian Blair likes the sound of his own voice too much, he should shut up and get on with his job."

I saw a bearded man in the front row eyeing me rather strangely. He came up to me afterwards. "Hi, I'm Ian Blair's brother."

Aaaargh! "Oh God, I'm so sorry. I wouldn't have been quite so strong if - "

"Oh, don't worry, I agreed with a lot of what you said. But what can you do with brothers, eh?"

November 8

"Ulrika wants you to go to the house." The text message from Ms Jonsson's agent, setting up an interview for GQ magazine, made me feel suddenly a little uneasy.

This wasn't just any old house. This was the house where she romped with that moronic Gladiators star Hunter; the house she famously fled to when Stan Collymore beat her up; most pertinently of all, the house she used as a kinky sex den for her secret fling with Sven-Goran Eriksson.

I crept timidly up to the front door and banged twice. Within two seconds it was flung open and Ulrika was kissing me. On both cheeks. In a very, very platonic way. But that must have been how it started with Sven.

"I've come to talk about your ridiculous life," I explained. Ulrika cackled: "Blimey, are you staying the night then?"

She sat me down in her sitting room, and there, right in front of me, was an enormous oil painting of her - naked. "Very nice," I said.

"Thanks," she replied. "The breasts are particularly good, aren't they?"

"Erm, yes, quite magnificent." "So they should be, I painted them myself. It gave me a great chance to rectify what God got wrong with my body."

I laughed. "I don't think he got it that wrong, to be honest."

I've known Ulrika since she was a TV-am weather girl. She's a professional celebrity, someone who is just famous for being famous, doesn't mind admitting it and makes the most of what that brings her. Every new tabloid headline means pound signs to her - the only enemy is public and media apathy.

We got on to the subject of Sven. I asked: "Do you regret it now?"

"No, not at all, I had a fun time with him." "But how can a man who shows so little passion on a football field fire himself up so passionately in bed, because you wouldn't have been with him if he couldn't, would you?"

She giggled. "It's controlled passion." "You must have known it would hit the headlines and cause mayhem?"

"I kept saying to him that it was bound to get out and with the World Cup only a few months away we were taking a huge risk.

And he kept laughing and saying: 'Some risks are worth taking, it's OK.'"

"Sven was utterly spineless with you, wasn't he?"

"Oh hell, yes, but at least I was able to work that out pretty quickly, realise what he was like and get out of it. I don't think he will ever have the balls to leave Nancy bloody Dell'a-bloody-lollio or whatever her stupid name is."

"Yes, but then look at her. Have you seen how much make-up she wears? She is deluded with a capital D. (Puts on hilariously mad Italian female voice.) 'Oh yes, I think this week we may adopt a baby. And next week we get married. And the week after I will become a geisha girl.'

"Christ. She's off her trolley. It's quite endearing, really. She's like a pantomime horse. I read somewhere recently that there is a country that has a law allowing you to marry someone even when they have died and I thought that would be her only hope with Sven. I can see her now, taking the dead hand of his corpse."

"Who is the best lover you've ever had?" I asked. "I honestly don't think I have had the best sex of my life yet. As I head towards my 40s I find I'm getting more and more confident sexually. I'm bang up for it these days."

"Come on then, what is the best sex you've had to date?"

"I can't tell you that. It would embarrass the person. Or at least, it would embarrass all the others." "When have you been most in love?" "I think with Lance [Gerrard-Wright, her last husband, from whom she had only just separated]."

"God, no. We were never really in love with each other. I didn't cry over Sven, I can honestly say that."

"I forgot to ask - what was Sven like in bed? A tornado?"

"More of a rowing boat. With one oar. Going round and round and round."

"A big oar?" "Size isn't everything." She laughed out loud.

November 11

Today I flew first-class to Dubai, where I'm being put up in a five-star hotel for a week, all expenses paid, and my only obligation is to turn up to a media networking group's party, and give an interview to the Middle Eastern edition of Hello! magazine. It epitomises my life at the moment: fun, glamorous, but essentially vacuous.

November 16

Invited to a party tonight in Abu Dhabi, at the new seven-star Emirates Palace hotel. The drive was an hour and a half, and we arrived to discover there was no alcohol and no Bill Clinton, who I'd been told would be there.

I ordered an orange juice, thinking it was a bloody long way to come and not have a drink, when I saw Benazir Bhutto, the former Prime Minister of Pakistan. I walked over. "Hello, I'm Piers - "

"Morgan, yes I know who you are. I'm reading your book. Most entertaining, especially about the Blairs."

It's not often I'm lost for words, but this was one of those moments. "Really? How amazing." I was genuinely shocked that someone as important as her was reading my diaries. And rather proud, it has to be said.

I spotted Richard Branson and tapped him on the shoulder. "Christ! What the hell are you doing here?" he laughed. I told him I'd just met Benazir Bhutto "and she said she's reading my book, can you believe that?"

Branson laughed even louder. "That's what she just said to me."

"What? That she was reading my book?"

"No, that she was reading mine!"

December 5

To the Hilton in Park Lane to speak at the Lord's Taverners' Christmas lunch. I was more than a little apprehensive about addressing 1,200 drunk blokes in suits.

Richard Stilgoe, the songwriter and former That's Life star, must have picked up on my rather too obvious anxiety, because he scribbled a note to me. "Fear not," it read, "you are among friends."

Then it added: "You are also an anagram of Morag R Penis, A Sperm Groin, Minor Gasper, and Porn's Mirage." I looked over and he was gurning away in a slightly uncomfortable manner. A strange fellow.

I sat next to Chris Tarrant and David Frost. Tarrant responded to a gentle inquiry of "How are you?" by replying rather oddly: "Fine, apart from the bloody wife causing me grief."

December 8

Took the train to Bristol to appear on Question Time. George Osborne, the Shadow Chancellor, groaned when he saw me. "Oh God, as if my day wasn't bad enough," he laughed.

He was front-page news after Labour rebel Dennis Skinner was thrown out of the Commons for observing about the Tory handling of the economy in the Eighties: "The only thing that was growing then was the lines of coke in front of Boy George and the rest of the Tories."

"Bloody Skinner," Osborne said, still laughing.

If that had been a Labour minister, there would definitely have been no laughter. The impressive thing about these Tories is the way they take this kind of thing in their stride. How you handle a crisis is perhaps the most important thing any politician can learn.

I took Celia Walden, the gossip columnist. It was a decision I regretted almost immediately as the TV star Jamie Theakston reeled drunkenly into view the moment we arrived and placed his hand on her right buttock.

I like Jamie, we live near each other in the country and play cricket for our respective villages. But his seduction technique is like his batting - aggressive and with a careless disregard for his own (and anybody else's) wicket.

Sure enough, he spent the next ten minutes chasing Celia around the party like a hyena on heat, lunging indiscriminately towards her body at frequent intervals and trying to drag her into various side rooms. It was, to put it mildly, an unedifying spectacle.

Celia, to her credit, fended him off as best she could, but I could feel the red mist rapidly descending, and concluded that I should quietly leave the party before doing something I might regret.

"Jamie, I mean it. Just leave her alone or you'll regret it," I said, aware that I was behaving like a jealous boyfriend when I barely knew the girl.

"Hit him," cried Ramsay, loving every minute.

Theakston stumbled, then grinned maniacally, blew Celia a spittle-fuelled kiss and went away. The crisis was averted.

"Thank you," said Celia. "You're my knight in shining armour." Ramsay was devastated. "F*** it! I was looking forward to a big fight!"

I turned away and, in one of those surreal evolutions you only experience at parties like this, found myself face-to-face with David Cameron and George Osborne.

Cameron was instantly charming, and not in that laboured Blairite I-want-to-be-your-best-friend-for-a-while way. He just seemed nice andnormal and smart. "When are you going to come back to the Conservatives then?" he asked.

"You could be our attack dog against New Labour," said Osborne, mischievously. "You must dislike them almost as much as we do now."

I laughed. Cameron and Osborne exchanged a quick glance. "Erm, seriously, you should think about publicly renouncing Labour and coming back to us."

They're quick thinkers, I'll give them that. They didn't really want me working for them - that would be madness on both sides - but an ex-Mirror editor defecting to their side right now would be a useful piece of propaganda.

"Well, let's see if you've got any policies first, shall we?" I said, and they laughed, easily and confidently. "Oh, we will, don't worry."

I liked them. They have a freshness and candour about them, especially in contrast to Labour's paranoid wrecks. "You could win the next election," I told them. "You've just got to play it right - and keep your noses clean."

Osborne groaned. He knew what I was getting at.

January 12, 2006

Dinner with Ian Botham, Freddie Flintoff and a few of their mates who'd helped with his last leukaemia walk.

Beefy has raised nearly £10 million with his charity walks now, a staggering sum. It remains an enduring and shameful mystery why he's never been knighted for this alone, never mind being one of the greatest and most inspiring sportsmen we've ever produced.

By 2am I was incapable of speech, stability or sense. Another huge jug of sangria arrived. "Come on. you lightweight," taunted Freddie, who had guzzled enough alcohol to sink a cruise ship but seemed completely sober.

He's very similar to Beefy: physically massive and strong as an ox, true to his friends, hard playing and hard drinking, smarter than people think, and already almost as iconic. Since the Ashes, he has become as famous as Beckham but just finds it all rather funny.

"I come out of me 'ouse in the morning looking rough and there's all these photographers taking me picture. And I have to laugh. I mean, who wants a photograph of me looking rough?" I laughed: "Everyone. Welcome to the world of celebrity, Fred." "I'm not a ****ing celebrity," he scoffed. "Oh yes you are," I replied. "So get used to it."

February 9

To Lord's cricket ground for the official launch of Flintoff's benefit year. I was sitting next to Freddie and he started to be bothered by autograph and photo hunters. Hordes and hordes of people wanted to slap him on the back, make inane jokes about Shane Warne and get a souvenir.

He dealt with them all with remarkable patience, but it was hot and increasingly uncomfortable as the scrum around him grew.

By the end, Freddie was bright red and sweating profusely. "That was ****ing 'arder than bowling at the Aussies," he laughed. Then he gripped my shoulder, harder than I would have wished, lent forward and growled in my ear: "I need a drink, Morgan, and I need a drinking partner."

I gulped. There are many quick ways to commit suicide, and being Freddie Flintoff's drinking partner appeared to be one of the more reliable ones, but this was no time to be a lightweight. "You couldn't keep up with me, Flintoff," I scoffed, not entirely convincingly. He cackled, very convincingly. "Do **** off, you cheeky tw*t!" "White or red, you northern lightweight?" I demanded. "Red." I took one of the open bottles on the table and poured us both large glasses.

Freddie took his and drank it in one mouthful. It was like watching a gorilla drink a bottle of milk. Fast, furious and unnerving. He eyed me suspiciously. "Come on then, hotshot."

I took my glass and drank it straight down. Not quite so fast, but not slowly either. "Fill 'em up!" came the order. So I did. And Freddie gulped his straight down again, faster than the first one. "That's better," he laughed.

I swigged mine down, too, slower than before, and with a slight convulsion near the end. "Oh dear, having trouble already, are we?2 he taunted as he grabbed the bottle, filled his glass again and threw a third straight down his vast throat.

I was in serious danger here, and we both knew it. I began drinking the third one, but stopped halfway through, pretending my phone had rung. "Sorry, mate, must be the office." I don't, of course, have an office any more.

By the time I'd taken my "call", Freddie had finished the bottle and was laughing and joking with some other mates. I'd escaped before a stomach pump was necessary.

February 23, 2006

Interview with Billie Piper. Prettier than I'd expected, and very friendly.

Every interview I've read with her smacked of squeaky-clean, and the first half of our chat was uneventful. Then I tested the water by asking: "What are your best assets?"

"Erm, I like my bum. I often admire it in shop windows. It's big and I like big butts; I find them really sexy. I love looking at other women's bums as well." She looked at me, smirking.

"Do you fancy women, then?" "Yeah, big time. I check women out more than I check men out."

"Have you ever slept with a woman?" "No." "Do you want to?" "Maybe. I have a few female friends who I've often talked to about this."

"Are you good in bed?" I asked. She roared with laughter. "I like to think I'm great. But then, every woman does, don't they?"

"Do you like porn?" "Yes." Squeals with laughter. "Do you have a high sex drive?" "I go through phases. Sometimes I like being on my own and don't want sex at all, I just want to do my thing quietly. Other times my sex drive goes through the roof."

"Are you a morning or evening girl?"

"Morning! It sets you up for the day."

"Coffee first?" "No. Straight in. Followed by a latte."

When it was all over, Billie kissed me goodbye. "That was fun," she grinned. "We must do it again some time."